EMELIHTER KIHLENG: I think about the treasures themselves and how they’re feeling, and how perhaps they see themselves as relics because they’ve been in these institutions for so long. I’m Emelihter Kihleng. I’m a poet, I’m a curator…

KATERINA TEAIWA (NARRATOR): Kihleng is from Pohnpei, where this dohr or belt was made. Dohr were worn by the highest-ranking male chiefs.

EMELIHTER KIHLENG: But women were the ones who wove the dohr.

KATERINA TEAIWA: In this way, dohr unite the power of the women who made them, and the men who wore them.

EMELIHTER KIHLENG: They were imbued with the essence or the manaman, the kind of spiritual power of the wearer.

KATERINA TEAIWA: Emelihter Kihleng thinks about objects like these as living, animated beings.

EMELIHTER KIHLENG: And maybe they feel completely disconnected from the people that wore them, and that they belong to. And I think that’s where kind of poetry and art is so essential, because it’s a way to kind of communicate with these treasures.

So I’ve actually written quite a few poems about dohr.

So yeah, I wrote this poem about this one.

Dohr, 1982.351

So you were never really asleep.

You whispered in our ears, Hinemoana, and I heard you in Bremen, behind the glass. You’d been dreaming a long dream of liberation, beyond repatriation.

Forget decolonization,

Forget decolonizing,

Forget it.

Here in The Met, I’ve had years to reflect, to meditate. But I’m young in this place. I mean, there’s a copper man with horns, from Mesopotamia, sarcophagi, an Egyptian temple, Mayan snakes, Ming vases, golden statues, distant kin, also breathed the same stale air. Dilukai and her giant labia. Turtle shell money. Jaki Ed. Tapacloths. Bisj poles, dance masks and fine mats. Here I am a relic, banana fiber and red wool. Sohte ahi peneinei me, apw itar. It’s okay. I too have led many lives. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be worn again. You should too.

Dohr (men's sash)

EK BİLGİ